To Fall While Lying
by awesomesen
Summary: October, 2020: Akihiko Sanada investigates a case that hits too close to home—and threatens to take the world, and his sanity, along with it. Hell, as they say, is repetition. Multi-part.
1. In Medias Res

_if you lie on the ground, you can't fall._

* * *

October 3rd, 2020.

* * *

Hagekure never ddid change much, which is why Akihiko still went, ten years after S.E.E.S., fourteen years after he and Shinji had stepped off a train, silent, Gekkoukan scholarships and the promise of no more foster care drawing them to the city. They'd taken the train from Port City to Iwatodai and eaten their first meal, silent, together, in this ramen shop—he could probably even remember what they'd ordered.

There had been a time that Akihiko had sworn off memories, confusing them with the past, but he's older now and cares much less. He's a few minutes early, but Ken is even earlier, already half way down a glass of soda by the time Akihiko sits at the table.

"Happy birthday," Ken tells him by way of greeting. His twenty-eighth had been last week. "I didn't buy you a present, so I ordered beef bowl for you instead. You're still paying." Ken's sense of humor was strange, but Akihiko didn't mind it. Yukari still lived in Iwatodai with her husband and children, but the rest of S.E.E.S. had scattered throughout Japan with high school and graduation done with. Akihiko was still in contact with everyone, visited Mitsuru when she's in town, but it's Ken who he sees the most of. To both of their surprise, they had become genuine friends.

"How's school?" Ken was a pre-law student.

He ran his hand through his fringe, shrugging a bit. "Midterms are next week. Mitsuru-san said that she'll raise my allowance if I score in the top three."

The waiter came by—true to his word, Ken had ordered Akihiko gyudon. He dug in with enthusiasm, then remembered to ask. "Allowance?"

Ken paused in the difficult task of breaking apart his disposable chopsticks without rendering them unusable. "Didn't you know? I'm on scholarship, but that doesn't leave me with any spending money, so Mitsuru-san bribes me."

"She's probably going to head-hunt you for the Kirijo Group the second you graduate."

"Probably. But I'm studying criminal law, not business law. I'm hoping she's not planning on needing a criminal defense attorney." Ken raises his eyebrows at Akihiko and eats his egg.

Akihiko grins into his bowl. "You still have a few years to go, but I wouldn't put it past her to plan that far ahead."

"So how about you, Akihiko-san?" They finally made the switch to first names a few years ago. "So long as we're speaking of criminal acts."

Where Ken was planning on going into law, Akihiko had become first a police officer, then a detective. "We caught the guy for the Tamada case."

"I saw that in the papers." Akihiko waiting for the 'but'; Ken took his time providing it. "It was your case, right?"

That explained it. "I was the primary." Akihiko kept eating. "But it's not unusual to call in experts, and the captain wanted to establish a business relationship with them."

"It's bullshit." Ken was angrier than Akihiko had expected, but he was touched more than anything. "I saw it in the papers. _Shirogane solves another case_, et cetera. They didn't even mention you."

"I didn't become a detective for the fame."

"It was still your case. They even quoted that Shirogane bastard—"

"—bitch," Akihiko correctly mildly. This was enough to cause Ken to falter. "Shirogane is a woman. Anyway, I don't really care, and she went home a few days ago, so you don't have to worry about her stealing my thunder from now on."

Ken sighed, shoulders rising and falling, exasperated at what he probably considered another proof of the world's injustice. "You're too easy-going, Akihiko-san." But he let it drop, and they ate in silence for a few minutes, eventually turning to more casual lunch subjects. How is Koromaru doing; fine, he's getting arthritic but the vet says he's in good health for his age; did you hear Yukari-san is pregnant again—casual chatter, catching up.

Finally, soup and drinks finished, Akihiko got around to asking. "What are your plans for tomorrow?" Tomorrow. Sunday. October 4th. Today was only obstinately to catch up over lunch.

Ken ran his fingers around the rim of his glass. "I was going to visit Mom in the morning... I have a paper due, so I need to finish it up, but I'll probably visit him and that place tomorrow night." Day and night, Akihiko notices. Even after ten years, Ken still puts too much stock in the fourth of October—but he can't blame it.

"Maybe I'll catch up to you."

"No, it's okay." Ken shrugs, smiles sheepish. "Like I said, I have a paper. I won't be long this year." He waves the waiter over, and they both spend a moment digging for money. Ken pays in cash, small bills, and Akihiko uses a credit card. He offers to pay, Ken refuses.

"Hard to believe it's been so long," Ken says eventually. "Eleven years... I mean, I _was _eleven, at the time." It's still a little hard for them both to speak honestly about that night, even after all this time. He covers it with a joke: "I feel sort of old."

"You've been old all your life." Akihiko smiles.

* * *

_You have one new text message._

_amada 080-5932-7588_

_10/3/20 14:37:06_

_is everything okay? you didn't show up to lunch._

_i tried to call you, but your phone was off.

* * *

_

October 4th, 2020.

_

* * *

_

He was too old now to skip work just because of a friend's death, and he didn't want to anyway. Akihiko showed up at the station a few minutes early on the 4th, returning greetings called out to him, sitting at his desk. Tamada's murder has been solved, but it's going to court, and he has a lot of paperwork to do. Not just for that case, although that's the one the Chief will be wanting fastest. When he'd decided to become a police officer, he'd had no idea how much desk work there'd be tied to it.

"Akihiko-kun." Kurosawa was exactly the same, just grayer. He was still a police officer, still stationed in the same police box. When Akihiko had joined the force, Kurosawa had been his mentor and staunchest supporter.

"Kurosawa-san." Akihiko stood back up from his desk. "How are you?"

His entire face was lines and angles; Kurosawa had never smiled much, but he did now, hardly visible. He pulled a cell phone out of his coat pocket; Akihiko recognized it as his own. "You left it at the police box yesterday."

"Oh." Come to think of it. Akihiko didn't care much for his cell phone, and was always leaving it here and there. One of these days, he'd really lose it. For now, he took the phone and put it on his desk. "Sorry about that."

"You're diligent, but forgetful," Kurosawa replied, waving off Akihiko's gesture to an empty chair. "I didn't come here to chat. Got some business with the boss. Take care, Akihiko-kun."

The send off was unlike him, but the officer was gone before Akihiko could respond to it. He sat back down at his desk, flipping open the phone. Two spam text messages, and a voicemail from Fuuka that he'd listen to later. He could guess what it was about, anyway, given today's date. Careful to remember to put his phone in his pocket, he prepared to lose himself in the world of paperwork, starting with the notes Shirogane had left behind.

* * *

Akihiko lived on Port Island, his apartment a stone's throw from Gekkoukan—rent was cheaper near the school—and the station was filled with high school students, some of them even in uniform despite it being a weekend. They all looked somehow tiny and young. He remembered being their age. He remembered it too well, today. Instead of staying on the monorail, he got off at Port Island Station, wheeling towards the alley without thinking about it. Then he did, and stopped short outside the flower shop, staring down at it. Eleven years today, Shinji, he thought.

He turned towards the flower shop. He knew roses, daisies, and sakura on sight; everything else was beyond him, and he was pretty sure Shinji would hate them. But he was here, and he was on his way to a grave-site. Maybe he'd leave them on Miki's instead, or donate them to Ken's mother.

Fingering the petals of something long-stemmed and purple, the saleslady slid up behind him. "Iris," she said; he was a little startled. "What are you looking for?"

"It's the anniversary of a friend's death." He turned to look down at her. She wasn't as tiny as Fuuka, but she was a small woman, pale haired and eyed. Her expression turned sympathetic.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

She stepped next to and in front of him, gathering the irises together. "They're associated with death, so it's an appropriate choice."

"I'm not sure what Shinji would think of purple flowers." He hadn't quite meant to say that. He was still, even now, a little awkward around women, tended to ramble.

Her mouth curled up. "Would red be better?"

"Yeah, actually." But even better, he thought, would be no flowers. He wasn't good at talking to salespeople, either. Akihiko allowed himself to be talked into a small bouquet, and the saleswoman tried to give him her business card along with his receipt. He threw both out without looking.

A few years ago, Iwatodai's police department had cracked down on the gang activity off the station. Akihiko hadn't been involved, and the entire project had been a failure anyway. The gang had stayed away for a few weeks, and then it was business as usual. Of course they'd be around on a Sunday, casting Akihiko and his flowers wary looks. "Hey, hey, pretty boy, get your pretty ass outta here," one of them hissed. Akihiko wondered if that was supposed to be scary, and pushed back his jacket just enough to reveal, casual, his gun's holster.

Punching one of them would work just as well, but he didn't feel like taking it that far. Them knowing he was a cop was good enough. He didn't come here often. Now and then for police business, or just passing through—but to this spot, lingering, less frequently. And, standing on the spot Shinji had died, he felt next to nothing. No significance, no sudden onset of grief, guilt. Just the same dull ache of sadness as always, the realization that he'd never seen him again, the twist of memory.

But he could feel that anywhere.

Over by the steps of the mahjong parlor, Akihiko spotted a stray cat. For some reason, the sight relaxed him, cheered him up, even, and he—still ignoring the staring punks—went over to it. It rubbed against his knuckles and he left the flowers at its side; it sniffed at them, too, and one of the punks muttered something crude. Akihiko wondered if it would be true to Shinji's memory to beat the shit out of the brats anyway; decided he'd probably embrace the thought, and further decided that it wasn't worth his job. He'd almost hoped to run into Ken. The boy could often be found here, especially when stressed over school or girlfriends—to the point that he was teased about it, a little. Oh, well. He scratched the cat's ears and decided to go to Hagakure again tonight.

* * *

_You have one new text message._

_amada 080-5932-7588_

_10/4/20 19:12:47_

_not to sound like a stalker, but you never showed up for lunch, and i can't reach you by phone. because of the date, i'm a little worried.

* * *

_

October 5th, 2020.

_

* * *

_

The trains were delayed the next morning, and Akihiko was almost half an hour late for work. He wasn't usually late, so doubted he'd get in trouble for it, but it irked him. He liked order, routine, arriving on time for things. Kurosawa was at the station again, standing and drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup; the Chief was with him.

"Sanada." Chief waved him over, and Akihiko obeyed, curious out of his slight annoyance. Kurosawa had shown up here yesterday, too: a new case? Chief—Kobayashi Eiichirou—was a few years younger than Kurosawa, a small, wiry man with leathery skin like a farmer. He had a cup of coffee, too, and was holding the cup so tightly that the sides were bending in. "We've got a body."

"You're giving it to me?" Akihiko tried not to grin and look excited. He'd just come off a major case, admittedly one he hadn't solved himself—it was a good sign. He had hopes of someday getting a promotion—

"No," Kobayashi said, and Akihiko realized the man was tense.

"Is this about Tamada?" Shirogane, he almost said. Maybe Ken had been right about that.

Kurosawa cleared his throat, and Akihiko looked at him, eyebrows raised. But it was Kobayashi who spoke. "The victim..." He was usually direct, almost blunt. And suddenly Akihiko knew.

He staggered a step sideways, bracing himself against a desk. Stared accusingly at Kurosawa, who had provided them all with weapons and armor and support, who knew every member of S.E.E.S., who had mentored Akihiko from the moment he'd entered the police academy. Who Kobayashi had called to the station to help break the news.

He didn't flinch from Akihiko's glare; Akihiko would have respected him for it if standing wasn't suddenly so difficult. "Early this morning, the body was discovered. He had identification, and I was able to positively identify him as Amada-kun."

"How...?" October 4th, Akihiko thought. Goddamn it. Goddamn it all to hell. And the image that flashed to mind was of Ken, eating his eggs, talking about his exams, and then again, Ken has an elementary school student, shaking and dead eyed, clothes splattered with someone else's blood.

"Gunshot wound to the temple," Kobayashi replied. "Suicide."

* * *


	2. October 7th, 2020

* * *

October 7th, 2020. Afternoon.

* * *

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time. And, pleading: "Mitsuru."

They're upset, shaken, all of them, but Mitsuru has the added excuse of jet-lag on top of it, having flown to Japan from the United States for the funeral. She was cranky on top of it. "We're all at a loss, Akihiko."

"He wouldn't kill himself." They were all together for the funeral. Ken's friends from school, a few teachers, no family but all of SEES, clustered together automatically, looking so much older and exactly the same. Clustered but for Akihiko and Mitsuru, who were arguing in sharp whispers in the back of the room. "Even if he were to kill himself, the details are all wrong."

"There's no evidence of murder." Mitsuru rubbed her temple. "If it had been on any other day... but you said it yourself. He was found late on the 4th."

"It's still wrong. This is Ken we're talking about. He's too—meticulous. If he was going to kill himself on October 4th, he would have damn well done it at the Station; just look at how he planned it out as a kid. You know that. And he shot himself wrong."

"Akihiko..." She was losing her patience with him, he could tell, but he pressed on, pulling his police-issue handgun out of its holster, safety on, pressing it quick and smooth to his forehead. He looked at Mitsuru from around his hand and the gun, and she looked calmly back. "Put that away before someone gets the wrong idea."

"That's how I always used my evoker. You know that. That's how he did, too. I could do it in my sleep, make that move. But he was shot in the _temple, _Mitsuru."

"I don't know!" she snapped, making a cutting gesture with her hands; some people turn to stare, and Junpei starts to take a step towards them. "You're the police officer, Akihiko. If you think it's a murder, then go solve it. I did not think I needed to give my permission. God knows I'd rather it have been." It still hurt to hear her snap it, even though he knew he was nagging, whining. Junpei did head over to them, Yukari's oldest hanging off his arm.

"You all right, Senpai?"

"No," Mitsuru said, looking and sounding exhausted, running a hand over her hair. "No, I am not. Excuse me." She wandered off in the direction of outside, and Junpei raised his eyebrows at Akihiko.

"She's takin' it hard, huh?" He grinned nervous at the realization of his foot going into his mouth; then the grin twisting into a grimace. "I guess we all are. Damn. It doesn't seem real, ya know? _I _didn't see it comin'."

That's not true, Akihiko thought. If it was, you guys would believe me faster that it was murder; you didn't see it coming, but you expected it. That was the ugly truth of it. Before he could decide if he wanted to bother saying it, a headache stirring behind his eyes, Yukari's kid fidgeted and tugged and requested a soda from uncle Junpei. Akihiko waved them and Junpei's apologetic shrug off.

The kid was four, almost four, something like that. Akihiko kept overlaying him with Ken.

Maybe, he admitted to himself, sitting in one of the receiving room's provided chairs, he was fooling himself. Clinging, obsessing, to avoid dealing with the fact that this had blind-sided him, that someone else he cared about had died without him able to prevent or even slow it. That he had been thick enough, unobservant enough—objectively, he knew all these things.

It was just—

Ken's roommate had seen him around the apartment earlier that day. Ken had been distant, distracted, but his roommate—Yamanaka—had attributed it to his work on his paper, to the date. Around two in the afternoon, Ken had left, presumably to go grave visiting. Yamanaka had left shortly after, having plans with his girlfriend. He'd come back to their shared apartment shortly after midnight, only to find Ken, slouched over a table, bullet in the temple, gun in hand. According to what evidence they'd been able to gather over the past two days, GSR proved Ken had pulled the trigger; the coroner and Yamanaka set the time of death as midnight.

That part fit, anyway. Ken was meticulous. Killing himself at midnight on October 4th did make a morbid sort of sense—but he would have done it at the alley, to the forehead, not half-assed in his apartment. And Akihiko would have seen it coming, the day before, at lunch. He had hovered over the investigation for a few hours, until he was officially removed from it and put on vacation.

He watched Mitsuru come back, looking more put together, sit down beside Yukari. They spoke; Yukari kept looking behind her to him. He stared back; her husband frowned at him, he ignored it.

Fuuka was pregnant with her first child, somewhere in the third trimester, but she was a tiny woman and didn't look it. She was the one who approached Akihiko next, easing herself into the seat next to him and staring at her stomach and lap. "Everyone's really worried about you," she said finally.

"I'm fine." I'm not the point, he added silently.

Fuuka had always been perceptive, more attuned to her Persona then the rest of them. She stopped watching her stomach and watched him; he tried to not notice. "It was suicide, Senpai." Gently. Too gently.

"It's all wrong, I've told you this before, just now—" He frowned. No. He had told Mitsuru. Hadn't he told Fuuka, and everyone else, too, just before? Earlier today? When they'd gathered for the service, before the monk had begun the sutras—

"Senpai?"

"If he were to shoot himself, he wouldn't have done it like that." What was the word? Deja vu. Fuuka's eyes went wide and she looked down and away, very quickly. Her husband, watching over the conversation, rose from his chair but didn't head over. "What is it?" Akihiko asked, snapping, almost, not sure what to make of this sudden change.

Fuuka took in a deep breath and was slow to let it out. "Senpai... Ken-kun hung himself."

* * *

October 7th, 2020.

* * *

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time. And, pleading: "Mitsuru."

They're upset, shaken, all of them, but Mitsuru has the added excuse of jet-lag on top of it, having flown to Japan from the United States for the funeral. She was cranky on top of it. "We're all at a loss, Akihiko."

"He wouldn't kill himself." They were all together for the funeral. Ken's friends from school, a few teachers, no family but all of SEES, clustered together automatically, looking so much older and exactly the same. Clustered but for Akihiko and Mitsuru, who were arguing in sharp whispers in the back of the room. "Even if he were to kill himself, the details are all wrong."

"He was hung, Akihiko." Mitsuru rubbed her temple. "There are hardly details."

* * *

October 7th, 2020. Afternoon?

* * *

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time. And, pleading: "Mitsuru."

They're upset, shaken, all of them, but Mitsuru has the added excuse of jet-lag on top of it, having flown to Japan from the United States for the funeral. She was cranky on top of it. "We're all at a loss, Akihiko. At best, it was a tragic accident."

But that was even worse. A murder, a suicide—anything was better than an accidental drowning.

* * *

(October?)

* * *

Déjà vu. That was the word. Déjà—

Akihiko opened his eyes and found himself lying in bed, covers kicked off, sheet twisted around himself. It was still hot for this time of year, and a fan hummed in the window.

He was sweating, hot and drenched, and he closed his eyes and drifted into a half sleep. After a few minutes, he opened them again, pulling himself out of bed. He padded into the living/dining room in his pajamas, thinking disjointedly from tiredness. He was never at his best first thing in the morning, which was why he still liked to start his day with a jog, a workout, get his blood flowing.

He began filling a teakettle with water from the sink and found himself staring at his wall calender. He'd gotten it for free, some sort of promotion. Ever month had a different exotic locale. This month's was _Utrecht, The Netherlands_, a city with canals and winding streets. He wrote his appointments on it, checked off each day, finding a strange satisfaction in that organization.

He hadn't checked off any days since September 27th—two weeks. It was the tenth, or the eleventh, right? Water spilled onto his hands; the kettle was overflowing. Akihiko shut off the water, put the kettle on the stove, and wiped his hands. The last week had been—well.

Déjà vu. That was the word. Déjà vu.

He looked for something to eat for breakfast and found his cellphone instead, lying on the shelf he used for dried boxed foods. One New Message, it informed him.

Call ID: _Amada.

* * *

_

October 7th, 2020?

* * *

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time.

* * *


End file.
